


Becoming Wilford

by dontworryaboutanything



Series: William [4]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier? - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Dark is a bastard and a half, Stockholm Syndrome, Who Killed Markiplier?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 21:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontworryaboutanything/pseuds/dontworryaboutanything
Summary: Prompt from skidspace on tumblr:Dark finding William dazed and malnourished still wandering the mansion in search of his friends and slowly picking away at the old colonel and shaping him into the serial trigger happy murderer he is_Dark turns William into Wilford.





	Becoming Wilford

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty dark! Be mindful of the tags, it is a mindbreaking type of plot and Dark is incredibly manipulative, so tread carefully if themes like this make you uneasy.  
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Also, it is tagged Dark/Wilford but it is beyond not meant to be romantic. 
> 
> Comments save my crops.

Where were they? They had to be here. They had to be. The DA was there. Where did the DA go? Where was he?

  
When William shouted, his voice wasn’t working, but he still tried. When you repeat something long enough, it stops sounding like a word. There were photos, in the office, of his friends. Their faces stopped looking like faces. The thing in the kitchen looked like the chef.

  
Everything in the kitchen smelt like rot, and he stopped going in there. They couldn’t be in the kitchen, they weren’t rotting.

 

It was only a joke.  
Death doesn’t mean the same thing here.

  
The lights went out on their own and didn’t come back on, and at night he stayed in the same spot so he wouldn’t run into anyone. He didn’t want to scare them away. He didn’t sleep, he just sometimes stopped being awake.

  
He didn’t have nightmares, just remembered a joke and woke up laughing.

  
It was so funny. He could feel their eyes, watching him.  
Where were they?

* * *

 

 

When he woke up, not remembering falling asleep, someone was calling him something that wasn’t his name.

Was it? It was hard to remember.

A cool glass was tilted to his lips and he let himself drink, coughing when it opened his dry throat again. He almost was sick, not used to anything in his stomach, and he bolted up right not to choke on it, dizzy immediately. A cold hand touched his back for a moment before retreating.

  
“Breathe. When was the last time you ate? I’m going to take care of you.”

  
It wasn’t Damien’s voice, wasn’t Mark’s, wasn’t quite either of them when he looked at the man, but it was almost. It was enough. He couldn’t cry, he was too dehydrated, so he just sobbed.

 

“Damie-”

  
“That,” he said, sharp and scolding, “Is not my name.”

  
Wasn’t it? Had he forgotten so easily? Maybe it was just- “Mark?”

  
The gray began to bleed into the surrounding air. They weren’t in the house, now. They were in the apartment William had been living in before, and the lights were dim but on, and William had forgotten what that looked like. He didn’t recognize the room. It hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t close them. If he did, his friend might disappear.

  
This time, he sounded angry, “No.”

  
How had William forgotten his name? He’d been so confused, it was only the confusion, the walking. He tried remembering the pictures, but all he saw was this man, this friend. This was his friend.

  
The man got up and came back with a cold meal. “Only eat what you can.”  
It was stern and William listened, going to pick with his fingers.

  
“Don’t. You need to shower, first. You’ll get sick, Wilford.”

 

“That’s not-” William tried to protest, but his hands were filthy when he looked at them.

  
If he wasn’t lying about that, why would he be lying about his name? He hadn’t heard anyone speak to him for so long. He must have forgotten.

  
He took another drink, water not tasting like water, watched dust smear into the condensation on the glass from his fingers, and let himself be whoever he had to be. He used the utensils to eat, and only went until it hurt. He was in a bed, but it was covered in plastic he hadn’t noticed until he shifted to hand the plate back.

  
Why wouldn’t his friend just touch him? He wanted to be touched. He needed to know he wasn’t asleep. The man took the walk to the kitchen slow and washed the plate, put it away, before coming back.

  
“May I wash you? You need it. You can’t stand.” The question didn’t sound like a question.

  
He’d grown up with his friends, they’d seen each other naked before. “If I need it.” He agreed, and finally, finally, finally, his friend reached out and pulled him close as he got him from the bed. He clung to the man, and sobbed again.

  
All the windows blinds were close, and there were no clocks in the room. No TV or radio. It could be any time, it felt like it wasn’t any time at all.

  
He found himself dizzier standing, but he’d been dizzy forever. He tried to help, to walk, but it was off balance and strange.  
“I’ll always ask before making any choices for you, Wilford. Your ankles are both broken. You’re going to have a hard time moving. You’ll stay here, with me, won’t you?”

  
“But where is-”

  
The man’s voice sounded sweet, higher. It didn’t sound like it had moments before, but familiar and distant now. “Don’t argue, Will.”

  
He couldn’t remember what he was going to say. His voice was slurring. Instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  
“What is it?” The man asked in return, voice different again, deep but not as deep or with the resonance it normally held. He had to hold up William’s weight when he stumbled. The water hadn’t tasted like water. His friend was going to make him better.

  
It was so hard to think. It wasn’t what he had thought, neither name was right, and he got caught between the two as he spoke, “Dam-rk-?”

  
His friend, his only friend, his real friend, laughed without joy and Wilford’s eyes slipped shut. “Dark will do.”

  
Every time he woke, it was to eat and to drink, go to the bathroom, and to agree to shower, but he’d slip away again soon after. Each time, though, he was awake a little longer. He walked more on his own. His ankles took a long time to heal, but when they did they were set wrong, and he lumbered a little strangely.

  
“Shouldn’t you be writing something, when you’re awake?” Dark asked, one day, casually. Wilford was eating more now, and didn’t feel so sick or light headed. He only got dizzy when he drank, and Dark had told him it would go away, that he was just getting used to it again.

  
“Why?” Wilford asked, but he’d been dreaming more. Remembering more.

  
It sounded right when Dark tsked and reminded, “You’re a journalist. It’s what you do.”  
He nodded. It sounded right.

The lights were always on, and he didn’t know if it were day or night. He didn’t fall asleep, like he always did, though.  
Dark asked as always before leading him to the shower, and this time he let Wilford undress himself. He was able to now.

  
“Do you want me to go?”

  
At once, panic seized Wilford, and was trembling as he reached out. “No! No, no, please-”

  
“I’d only be outside. You don’t need help, anymore. Do you want me to stay?” Dark asked, and Wilford nodded, frenzied and terrified. Dark never blushed, never flinched, and he didn’t shy away when William hugged him, nude.

  
“No, no, please, I want you to stay, please-”

  
Dark rewarded him by returning the hug.

  
“Alright. Wash, now. You need to get clean.”

  
“But-”

  
“I know what you need.” Dark reminded, as he so often did, voice soft, and Wilford nodded. He got into the shower, and Dark stayed. He looked away politely, as if he hadn’t been washing Wilford for ages now.

  
“I have a story you should look into. There is a very important man that I would like you to find. It will be a big boost for your career.”

  
“Where do I work?” Wilford asked, confused, as he washed. He felt completely at ease.

  
“Don’t you remember?”

* * *

 

DON’T REMEMBER  
DON’T REMEMBER  
DON’T REMEMBER  
DON’T REMEMBER  
DON’T REMEMBER  
DON’T REMEMBER  
DON’T REMEMBER

* * *

  
GO BACK TO SLEEP

* * *

 

“I’m an independent journalist.” Wilford recalled.

  
“Yes.”

  
“I’m going to work for the AFC?” Had they talked about this before?

  
“Yes.” Dark smiled.

  
“How do I get a job there? Are they hiring?”

  
“They’ll need to be. Talk louder, Wilford. You talk louder.”

  
Wilford spoke up, smiled more, “Why will they need to be?”

  
“You’re going to open a position.”

  
“How?”  
“You’re going to kill one of their reporters.”

  
Wilford stopped smiling. The shampoo, the one he’d chosen when Dark gave him a bag full, smelt sweet. Like decay. Like strawberries left in a fridge. Like a body left on the floor.  
It fell out of his hand.

“I’m going to-?”

“It’s only a game, Wilford. He won’t mind. It will be fun. It’s only a joke. What is death, Wilford?”

  
Wilford had to sit down, curl up, hide. He felt exposed. There were ghosts without faces pounding on his eardrums.

  
Dark opened the glass door, turned off the water, wrapped a towel around Wilford. When Wilford reached for him, he stayed out of touching distance. “What is death, Wilford?”

  
Everything went quiet.  
And he couldn’t remember anything at all.

  
“Nothing.”

  
Dark smiled, took Wilford’s face in his hands, pushed his wet hair back.

  
“You’re a good friend, Wilford. Choosing to do this to find the man I need.”

  
“Who is he?”

  
“His name is Mark, he goes by Markiplier in his profession” Dark said, and looked for the first time nervous. Had he done this wrong before? Wilford only nodded.

  
“What a stupid name.”

  
Dark laughed, humorless, helped Wilford up. He pulled a shaving kit from the medicine cupboard, a straight razor. He had Wilford sit on the floor before dressing, and had him look up so he could shave his scruffy beard. He was left with a mustache, tickling his upper lip with the cut. Dark, once, paused at Wilford’s neck, leaving the blade there for a moment.

  
“Are you happier, now, Wilford?”

  
Wilford beamed. Dark kept shaving. He wiped Wilford’s face for him. He hadn’t knelt on the floor, but leaned down only a bit.

  
“Get up.” He commanded, and Wilford did.

  
He pulled a bottle from the same cupboard, bright pink, and looked Wilford over a long time. “May I?” He asked, and Wilford nodded without hesitation.

  
He brushed the dye through Wilford’s mustache. For once, when he smiled, it looked excited. Cruel, and excited.  
“Look at you, they’re never going to forget you. They’re going to love you.”

  
“Who?”

  
Dark opened the window, let daylight pour in, for the first time.  
The cars were different than what Wilford remembered. How much time had passed?

Maybe he’d just forgotten.

  
“Everyone, Wilford. They’re going to be watching, if they’re not already” He is looking at you. You are looking back. He does not only talk to Wilford. “Don’t you remember?”


End file.
